


If I Never Lied, Then Baby, You'd Be The Truth

by Iambic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (absolutely no incest), And an ensemble of Orlesians and inner circle companions, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian may have accidentally let slip to his father that he's dating a Qunari. His father insists upon visiting anyway. This would be bad enough, but Dorian isn't actually dating a Qunari at all, and now he's stuck pretending to be madly in love with the Iron Bull for a week. </p><p>At least it's an easier role to play than he'd originally anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically the first fic I ever wrote for Bull/Dorian, begun almost a year ago. Many of my earlier fic--including "no reason left to stay (that's why we're leaving)"--are results of procrastinating on finishing this.
> 
> To be fair, it's still not finished. I'm gonna try to update weekly, but my life's something a disaster lately and I make no guarantees.
> 
> You may blame AO3 user blythesome once again for literally everything, including the bomb-ass title. And thanks again to the Squad for putting up with my groaning about "Fake Dating.doc" for the past year.

Later, this would all fall under the heading of "seemed a good idea at the time." When Magister Halward Pavus sent an excessively awkward letter inquiring as to whether his son had slummed it sufficiently in the backwater south—and when he would be returning home—Dorian had only thought to ruffle his father a bit. So, "You'll be delighted to meet the Herald of Andraste, you'll remember her, and of course my Qunari lover," had been a throwaway line. Good for a laugh, ha ha, well done Dorian, there goes the rest of your father's dark hair.

But the joke was as ever inevitably on him, when the next missive arrived and his father responded that, if it meant that much to Dorian, he would make the time to come south himself. "To better understand your insistence on staying put," as he'd said it.

"Pretty sure I'm supposed to be the nervous one," says the Bull, slapping Dorian on the back in the here and now. "After all, I'm meeting the family, and if he attacks me, I can't kill him."

"Do refrain," Dorian snaps, and then sighs. "He won't do that. He'd be extraordinarily outnumbered."

The Bull laughs, big and broad as his shoulders. "Shame."

Why the Iron Bull agreed to play along with this little farce, Dorian can't say. Perhaps he too relishes the idea of scandalising a magister—or, more likely, scandalising Dorian as well. There is also the favour Dorian now owes him, which he will doubtless end up regretting. But the Bull did agree to help. Dorian has not been here in the cold but friendly south long enough to take that lightly.

"I do appreciate your help," he says, and the Bull laughs again.

"Don't strain yourself on my behalf."

Despite himself, Dorian's hands clench as they enter the courtyard. He has to smooth them against his coat before he reaches their esteemed Inquisitor, though she's fidgeting herself—Kara had not taken kindly to Magister Pavus' actions, once informed.

She does double-take at the Iron Bull at Dorian's left, and raises an eyebrow at Dorian himself, but elects not to comment. "Are you ready?" is all she asks, reaching up to rest her hand for a moment on Dorian's shoulder.

"As I'll ever be, I suppose."

Momentarily the soldier atop the right gate tower gives the signal and, at Kara's nod, the gates swing ponderously open. Magister Pavus' retinue come into sight before Halward himself, carrying banners of all things, as if this is some sort of stately visit rather than the rebuked father attempting to reconnect with his estranged son. Dorian doesn't realise he's tensed up until both Kara's hand and the Bull's arm press against him. He excuses his lack of protest with the stress of the moment.

The whole group comes to fourteen, including Magister Pavus in the center. He steps forward, catches sight of Dorian and the people flanking him, and visibly starts, which is a fantastic sign. Perhaps this will go all right after all. Perhaps the cows will once again take flight over Minrathous, for that matter.

Kara cleverly positioned them to stand in a patch of afternoon sun, while the House Pavus entourage remains in Skyhold's shadow, but the disadvantage of their position is that anything in the shade becomes somewhat obscured, especially with the sun in their eyes. Dorian cannot see, for instance, if his father is looking at him, or if his face betrays his intentions—whatever in the Maker's name they are.

They all stand there while the House Pavus flags flap in the mountain breeze. Dorian's terrified that breaking the ice will fall to him, but his father beats him to it. "The Inquisitor, as I recall. We did not get properly introduced when we met before, though given the circumstances..."

"It wasn't really the right time," replies Kara, stiffening at Dorian's side. She hadn’t actively opposed this visit, but she had made it very clear she had made up her mind on Halward's account and would not be changing it. As long as she doesn't set anyone on fire without provocation, it's honestly comforting. Kara does not quite glare at Halward, but anyone could read the suspicion and dislike in her posture and face.

The Inquisitor is a diplomatic disaster, and Maker knows why but the people love her for it.

"Magister Halward Pavus, of Qarinus," Halward says, sweeping a grander bow than the situation called for. Eager, perhaps, to make up for past behaviour. Or maybe he just wants to set aside ages upon ages of Tevinter oppression before the Dalish woman whose hospitality he must maintain can, what, remember it? Whichever, he must see just as well as Dorian that there is no forgiveness in Kara's eyes.

Over to the side, Josephine makes small but urgent gestures—welcome him, her lips read—and miraculously Kara responds. Without an effort to downplay her own hostility, she replies, "Skyhold eagerly offers its hospitality to friends of the Inquisition."

The Bull snorts, quietly, and Dorian resists the urge to elbow him. "The Inquisition is most gracious," says Halward, as if he failed to notice any irony in Kara's delivery.

After a moment, Kara manages a working smile, though with the teeth she bares it might not quite count. "Ambassador Montilyet will see to accommodations for your delegation," she begins, but Josephine does step forward then. Wise woman. Kara did mention a fair number of times where Magister Pavus could accommodate his delegation, in less public settings.

Josephine makes a smooth transition of it. "But please, in the meantime, why don't we have Dorian show you around Skyhold, Magister Pavus? I'm sure you must be eager to speak with him, and there is some time yet before the evening meal." Her eyes dart to Dorian's, perhaps in apology, but the man is Dorian's father. No sense in foisting him off to someone else immediately.

"I'd be happy to," he says, perhaps not as enthusiastically as he ought. "Father?"

Halward inclines his head, and Dorian tries not to swallow too noticeably. He grabs the Bull's right elbow instead, in case he had any ideas about getting out of this one. As Josephine draws their Inquisitor away from possible violence, Halward approaches them with the beginnings of a smile.

"I am glad to see you well," he says, and Dorian grits his teeth. Even a little hesitation would have been something, just the barest acknowledgement that he might have contributed to any unwellness on Dorian's part—well, that would have been too much to expect, clearly. But not too much to ask for. "You've been missed in Minrathous."

"Short a scandal or two these days?" Dorian replies, keeping his voice light, though his fingers tighten against the Bull's arm. He drops his hand as if burnt. "I should have thought that the absence of one source would only bring about a half dozen more to light. Or have I become an effective cautionary tale? No matter. You'll want to see the garden, I expect. Allow us to escort you."

The attempt at friendly greetings thwarted, Halward follows them up past the Herald's Rest and the infirmary. Maintaining a steady chatter— "the barkeep's name is Cabot, but he's yet to serve an identifiable vintage. You'll have no interest in his brews—" holds off further conversation until they reach the wall itself. But he's got to ask sooner or later, and while Dorian was bold enough writing letters, suddenly the prospect of making a case for the false relationship between himself and the Bull seems a much more ponderous task.

And indeed his father does cut in, once they've commenced walking the wall, but it is only to say, "There are aspects of the architecture that could almost be of Tevinter."

An easier question to answer, at least. But speaking of the absent Solas to his father seems somehow inappropriate. Dorian compromises. "The—man who guided us to this place claimed it to be of elven origin. Though it's been destroyed and rebuilt plenty of times since then. We found masonry from Nevarra during the restorations, and I wouldn't be surprised if something from the Imperium had made its way in the structure."

"Someone who lived here liked to take really big souvenirs," adds the Iron Bull.

Halward takes another furtive glance at him, like he thinks the Bull won't see. "It would be fascinating to learn more of the previous inhabitants," he says, to Dorian. "And if I know you, you've already begun to search for them."

Never mind that Dorian he knows is wishful thinking he superimposed over his actual son. The second benefit of having the Bull with them; Dorian can't voice these things in front of someone else. He braces himself for a moment against the grey stone guard wall, faintly warm from the sun despite the chill of the air. "I've only been terribly busy saving the world," he says, leaving out the bitterness but not all of the spite. "Certain pursuits had to wait."

The Bull snorts, but when Dorian looks up at him he only quirks the side of his mouth. When he looks back to Halward, his father has turned his face away entirely. Certain pursuits. Ah. Well, his father can keep his disgust to himself for now, if that's his game, and Dorian will enjoy the continued respite.

"Anyway, if you'll look to your right, you'll see the stairs we're about to take," he says. "Unless you're enjoying the view, in which case: please, continue."

They descend into the garden. Mother Giselle, to Dorian's delight, shoots Magister Pavus a far dirtier look than she's ever graced him with. It follows them into the Skyhold chantry, which gets raised eyebrows from Halward—possibly from the drab decor, or the prominent statue of Andraste confronting any visitor to the room. Good old southern Andrasteans. The Bull sneezes as they bustle back out, and when Dorian passes him a spare handkerchief in solidarity, his father looks away again.

He admires the herb garden for its practicality, but either fails to notice or does not deign to comment on the more recreational specimens that have been introduced of late. A few visiting Fereldan dignitaries escape introductions by virtue of Dorian simply not knowing their names; they absent themselves rather than dedicating time to being properly offended. The gardener simply walks away ahead of them, glancing back furtively over her shoulder in the exact same way that Halward has been pretending not to glance at the Iron Bull.

It's funny, to see this again. When Dorian first joined the Inquisition back in Haven, he'd been met with similar mistrust and avoidance, particularly from the other mages—which was understandable at least. And Cullen's former templars had watched him always with hard faces. He'd thought to find some work he could do, some way to help out, but no one had been particularly forthcoming with it. Not until the red templars' attack, anyway, as nothing brings people together like running desperately for their lives. Unless another Corypheus happens to be readying an attack on Skyhold, though, Halward Pavus won't get that chance.

The elder Pavus might hold an important seat on the Magisterium and the younger might be a turncoat and an outcast, but only one of them has given anyone in the south reason to think anything but ill of Tevinter. In this place, at least, Dorian has something over his father.

They continue on into the Inquisitor's hall, currently lacking one Inquisitor. Josephine has beaten them there, waiting with an honest smile like the spirit of capability she must be. "I have seen to your quarters, Magister Pavus, if you would like to freshen up from your journey. We will be dining in this hall in two hours' time, but if you wish, I will send for light refreshments. Unless you had additional sightseeing planned, Dorian?”

"I think we can relinquish him into your hands," Dorian replies, trying to convey a world of gratitude with the least evidence possible.

"My son served as an excellent guide," Halward says, again looking away from the Bull. And while it was relieving to avoid having that particular conversation, this will be a very pointless visit if he can avoid everything offensive to his sensibilities.

Dorian shoots the Bull a look, but still jumps when the Bull's arm wraps around his waist. He claps a smile on quickly, but the noise is still enough to attract his father's attention. Halward's mouth tightens, just for a moment. "I will appreciate something to drink before retreating to my quarters. Thank you, Lady Montilyet," he says, turning back to her, voice smooth as if there were no interruption at all. But it was enough for that glimpse of his discomfort.

Manners dictate that Dorian ought to stay until his guest takes his leave, but having paused even so shortly was enough to let the shaky tiredness sink in. It will hardly hurt his father's opinion of him to disregard one more convention. "In that case, I hope you'll excuse us until the evening meal." He places a careful hand on the Bull's back, a point of emphasis, but he can't keep it there with his nerves still firing off like gaatlok. The Bull shifts his own to settle at the base of Dorian's spine, just shy of inappropriate, a point of support.

The Bull's hand stays on the small of Dorian's back until they're well out of the way in the library, which Dorian regrets because once separated he remembers how cold it is in here. Perhaps he ought to have lit a fire in the hearth after all. It would be preferable, anyway, to leaning on the Iron Bull for warmth.

"What a charming guy," says the Bull, shaking his head. "Can't look a man in the eye. Sure this is the same one who chased you out of Tevinter?"

Dorian shakes his head. "He didn't chase me out. But he might have been a little less obvious in his judgement."

"The flinches were the best part." The Bull smiles wide and a little bit predatory. It's unfortunately an extraordinarily good look on him. "Whenever I caught his eyes. It was pretty hilarious. Think it's because he thinks I'm Qunari, or because he thinks I'm fucking you?"

"Either would do it." Dorian laughs, more bitter than he meant, and rubs his forehead. He does not look back at the Bull, most likely still entertained by their alleged sex life. This may end up more exhausting than he had planned.

It's only a week and change, at least. Ten days, and they could all laugh about it as Pavus the elder and his retinue descend the mountains in disgust, never to trouble them again. He'll do the Iron Bull his favour and they'll go back to being tangential pieces in the Inquisition machine and no more than that.

"Possibly I was hoping he would take one look at you and leave in a huff," Dorian adds after a moment. "I suppose that was too much to hope for. He'll want to stay and change my mind."

He does chance a look at the Bull then, and is rewarded by an unexpectedly serious face while the Bull considers him. "Hey, I can try being more explicit, if you want. Pretty sure your dad won't take kindly to the detailed thought of his bound and gagged son getting pounded by some brutish oxman."

"That won't be necessary!" Dorian yelps, and just like that the Bull's grin is back. It no doubt doesn't help that Dorian is, of all things, blushing. But there's a difference between having engaged in more audacious acts of coitus and having the man pretending to be his lover tell his father about them. Regardless of whether they actually happened.

Still, they clearly need to make this more unavoidable. "The hand on my back was a smart touch," Dorian allows, ignoring how he'd very nearly flinched and given them away. "He doesn't need to know the particulars of our fictional sex life, but some physical contact will give him the right idea and all that."

"You asking me to touch you?"

The Iron Bull's grin has not yet faded. In fact, it may have just widened. "You needn't look so eager," Dorian sniffs.

"Hey, if we're gonna play this out for a week, we might as well have fun with it." The Bull snorts. "And if you're not gonna, I sure will."

"At my expense, I expect," says Dorian, but of all possible fates a week of embarrassment at the Bull's hands is infinitely preferable. Dorian presses the bridge of his nose against the oncoming headache. "Fine, enjoy yourself. I just want it to be over. Having him around sets my teeth on edge."

"I thought that was the point of dragging me into it," the Bull points out, hand coming down heavy on Dorian's shoulder, but Dorian's lack of response or his expression must not have passed muster. The hand stays, but the Bull leans around to catch Dorian's two eyes with his one. "Hey. You've got a whole mountain fortress full of people happy to keep you safe. No one's gonna think the less of you if you let them at it."

That's not completely the problem, though, and tactical master the Iron Bull may be but he doesn't understand parents. Dorian can't explain that without overexposing himself, and it doesn't really matter, not to the Bull. Not beyond a point of curiosity. He thinks to break the gaze, or say something, but whatever it was to be becomes a mystery to the ages as the door opens behind them. Josephine's voice calls, "Dorian, are you," and then interrupts herself with a surprised "oh!"

Both Dorian and the Bull look up in horrible tandem, physical contact unbroken, and Josephine claps a hand over her mouth. "I do apologise, I didn't realise—oh, I _should_ have taken Varric's bet—I'm so sorry to interrupt. Perhaps another time?"

Dorian moves out of the Bull's orbit to call her back, but the door has already shut behind her. So much for explaining the arrangement to the appropriate people before the news came out. "If you run," the Bull offers, "you can probably catch her," and Dorian is about to do just that before he thinks twice. His father was still in the hall when they entered the library and there's no way to know if he's left.

It will have to wait. "I should have informed everyone before he arrived," Dorian says aloud. "No matter. We'll explain when he's gone. More convincing, anyway, if we're the only ones pretending."

The Bull shrugs, which could mean any number of things—agreement, acquiescence, a lack of inclination to take any responsibility for leaving Kara or Josephine out of the loop. "If we're keeping everyone else in the dark, it'll look weird if we sleep in separate rooms."

He doesn't even look smug about it, so outrage would be a completely useless reaction. They both know he's right, anyway. "I expect you to bathe daily," is all Dorian can muster without being an unbearable prick, and the Iron Bull just snorts.

"I'll even scrub behind the ears. Just for you," he says, and that, Dorian supposes, will have to do.

One tense dinner later, they share the bed. Bedding isn't nearly as hard to come by as it would have been the first few weeks at Skyhold, but it would require asking someone, which would surely bring up questions—best just not to chance that. Dorian can't make the Bull sleep on the ground in good conscience, and he certainly doesn't intend to sleep there himself. It's not a huge bed, but Dorian knows how to take up little space when need be, and the Bull winds up being a surprisingly stationary sleeper.

Not so with Dorian. He's restless at the best of times, and tonight the Iron Bull's furnace-like presence has him on a low-grade adrenaline rush. It has been—a long time since anyone shared his bed in any capacity. So even an entirely sexless arrangement leaves him awake and alert and nervous. He keeps needing to contain the urge to roll over on his side and lean back-to-back against the Bull, just because the Bull is warm and there.

But that would be entirely inappropriate and not a small bit horrifying, so Dorian rolls out of bed and pulls his coat on over his bedclothes. Going outside at any hour means socks and boots, but it's better than lying awake, so he pulls both on and slips from his room like a thief.

The halls of Skyhold are dim but not completely empty; one of Sister Nightingale's spies winks at Dorian as she passes, Maker-forsaken raven on her arm. The bird makes not a sound. A young mage skitters from stairwell to some bedroom door. When Dorian opens the door to the fortress wall, he finds Cassandra pacing it.

"Dorian," she says, startled, then settles in place. "Can't sleep, I take it?"

"I've been more relaxed in my life," he replies, and leans against the other side of the walkway.

They both lack for words for a moment, and Dorian is halfway through wording the least awkward excuse to leave when an actual question comes to mind. "Have you seen Josephine this evening? I understand she had a question for me."

He smiles, but it comes out nervous. Cassandra fixes him with a Look, which must really be a feature of Seeker trainer the way she wields it. While the Nevarran winds could easily have frozen her face in her usual fearsome scowl, this one's worse for being intentional. A delightful friend, to be sure. "I have not. She has been entertaining the magister for most of this evening, a task I do not envy her."

"Nor I," says Dorian with feeling; he'll have to get Josephine a gift basket when this is all over. "I had hoped my father would be tired from the road, and retire quickly. Had I known—"

"Was there some significance to my having seen her?" Cassandra interrupts, ever impatient.

"Ah." The chance to deploy his excuse has now passed. "Not as such, no, I only wondered if she had spoken to you regarding—whatever message she meant to impart."

"She did not," Cassandra says, frowning deeper. "Is there any cause for her to have done so?"

"Not especially," says Dorian, full of regret for even beginning this conversation but trapped nonetheless. It would have even been a nice night, the clear skies of day remaining thus for an unencumbered view of the waxing moon, even the perpetual wind grown milder with the end of winter. Ruined, now, by his running mouth.

"Then what," continues Cassandra, "are you tiptoeing about."

Dorian considers his options. He'd intended to go ahead with his resolution to tell no one, but the delightful thing about Cassandra is that no one can read her even at her most flustered. She just glares and whatever unreadable emotion that might possibly have shown becomes something hardly worth the risk to decipher. She could stare at Dorian in disapproval or disdain whenever he passed and no one would even think it unusual. Whereas if she suspected something amiss she would pry, and do so effectively, which would be much riskier for this little farce.

It's always nice when problems have clear solutions. "I may have outmaneuvered myself," Dorian says, spreading his hands in admittance. "I told my father certain untruths before he made plans to visit, so as to cut off the problem at the source, but as he proved determined to inflict himself upon me and the entire Inquisition while he's at it, I thought it the best to play these misconceptions out where he will have to witness them."

Cassandra's already providing a marvelous example of the face she will no doubt be directing his way for the next nine days. "And these 'misconceptions' would be...?"

"Ah, well," says Dorian. He pauses, either for dramatic effect, or dread. Potentially both. He’s not entirely certain. "I may have informed him that our resident Tal-Vashoth and I have been far more intimate than the truth would tell."

For a moment Cassandra's face twists and fear lodges itself in Dorian's heart. As friendly as they've been lately—and in comparison to the early days of their acquaintance, they're practically bosom companions—he knows the vastness of her ire, and if he has properly incurred it the whole jig may be up. But then Cassandra is laughing at him, and all is well. "You told your father that you were romantically involved with the Iron Bull?" she asks, incredulous in tone but starting to grin.

"I had no idea he was going to see for himself!" Dorian protests, perhaps a little hotly. "I couldn't think of anyone who would horrify him more than that. You must have seen his face when he arrived."

"I had assumed the Inquisition and our elven leader would be sufficient for even that sour look," Cassandra replies. "So, you and the Bull are, what? Lovers for a week and some?"

Dorian winces. Technically true, but she didn't need to phrase it as if they were actually anything. "As far as my father will know. Only... Josephine walked in on us planning and now seems to believe it independently."

"Planning," says Cassandra, total deadpan, but does not press the matter. "And you feared she might have conveyed this information to me."

"Apparently not." His hands, chilled now, find his pockets. "Though now you know anyway. I thought it might be simpler, no one knowing but the Bull and I, but I suppose Kara would prefer to be informed."

"For her sake, or for your appearance's sake?" Cassandra asks, which is unfortunately a fair question.

"You're not going to insist I report all plots to my superiors?"

Cassandra rolls her eyes. She is really quite good at it, a true master of timing and rotation. "It is hardly my business—or hers—who you do or do not involve yourself with. But I suspect that our Inquisitor would make an even poorer liar than I."

Completely true. Kara managed in Halamshiral with sharp wit, not brilliant diplomacy—much to Josephine's chagrin—and in no other situation has even bothered to conceal her true feelings on any matter. It had earned her respect, but put rather a damper on subterfuge.

She would, of course, find the whole matter utterly charming. Telling her the truth afterward will be a chore, though hardly so much a chore as entertaining Magister Pavus for the duration of his visit.

"You're quite right," Dorian says, "and thank you, Cassandra. For your assistance. And your discretion.”

"I'm scarcely assisting," Cassandra protests, but Dorian returns to his walk before she can say anything else to surprise him.


	2. Day Two I

By the time Dorian returns to his room, he’s walked off his nerves enough to fall asleep, but it doesn’t last the night. He wakes up cold and stiff from sleeping on his side; the Bull has departed already, being one of those insufferable people who have both the cause and desire to rise early. Dorian considers the day ahead and then considers sleeping through it—but no, this headache is entirely his business, and heaven knows what havoc Kara will wreak if left alone with a magister, particularly this one. It's flattering, one supposes, to have such vehement support, but also alarming.

Some time later he emerges victorious from his wardrobe, having taken advantage of the poor mage's shower (upended bucket, heating charm, and a very small gravitic ring) previously, and wrangles his mustache in the Orlesian mirror so kindly provided by some patron or another. Constant defensive dressing means that if he's possessed of additional reasons for doing so, no one will possibly notice. Surely not his father, who only ever expected it—a necessity within his social circles, back in Tevinter.

There is breakfast to be had as a group meal, but Dorian has only experienced it before excursions out into the somewhat more civilised south—or, on occasion, the Hissing Wastes. At this hour, he must brave the cook himself, or send someone professional to do it for him. But Magister Pavus will not be anywhere near the kitchens, and comparatively the cook is a delight. Dorian descends the steps undisturbed and has his breakfast on the steps outside that overlook the stables and Josephine's merchants.

The peace does not last long. A clatter from above provides Dorian the moment's notice he needs to remove his tea—woefully not coffee—from harm's way before Sera descends from the roof to land nimbly on her toes beside him. She's properly smirking, eyes practically glittering with glee, which given yesterday's events can only really mean one thing.

Sera does not disappoint. "So," she says, all dripping with emphasis, "I guess you were all bluster, huh?"

"I should hardly say so," Dorian replies.

"Blah blah, I'm civilised, we don't bump uglies with oxmen where I come from, I neeeever stare at anyone's giant prick," counters Sera, in a poor approximation of his voice. Points for effort, Dorian supposes. "Course I can't say I blame you. Them Qunari, eh?"

The remaining egg seems fated to grow cold. A tragedy, really. And something equally troubling: convincing Sera that he is not actually sleeping with the Iron Bull might not be entirely possible. Certainly not right away, and there's no guessing how long she will distrust his word on that matter.

"Thing is, kind of impressive how you kept it all hush-hush till now," Sera says, unfazed by the lack of response. She perches on the door jamb. "Figured you'd be pretty loud about it, if you get my drift. Course, maybe you like getting shut up. Wouldn't put it past you Tevinters."

"I'm worried," Dorian says, around a mouthful of lukewarm egg, "about how much thought you're putting into this."

Somehow, pointed comments about his sexual proclivities hit softer coming from Sera. Perhaps it's because she's so constantly crass about everything that it can hardly be solely directed at him, or perhaps it's just nice to see the kids these days being comfortable with absolute filth. The fact that she's loud and clear about her own interest in women helps as well, though Dorian harbours some small resentment that she can be so casual about it in the first place.

Sera says, "Not as much as you, I bet," and then, satisfied for now, saunters off to wreak havoc somewhere else.

She is only the first. Blackwall, who is once again on speaking terms with Josephine, splits his own face with a grin and waggles his eyebrows when Dorian passes the stables. He doesn't call out about it, though. Considering Blackwall's actual identity, he does have reason not to shout what could be a secret where the whole Inquisition can hear. Dorian opts to skulk the walls before someone else gets more vocal about it, which is where he encounters Cullen.

Dear, guileless Cullen does not give him any sass. It's entirely possible he simply hasn't heard Josie's testimony. "Dorian," he says in that eternally harassed tone of his. "I'm glad to see you in fine spirits, given the circumstances."

An earnest greeting gets an earnest laugh in return. "Only given these particular circumstances, of course. No, don't try to deny it, I know my finely-bred distress is a rare treat here in the south."

At the beginning of their acquaintance, Cullen would have stumbled an awkward apology, and it's a mark of his character growth that now his reaction is simply to chuckle.

He's still wearing that enormous fur, suitable armor against the mountain chill, but even from a friendly distance Dorian still feels the heat it has stored from the sun. If the weather keeps growing warmer, eventually it might even grow uncomfortable for the poor man. Nothing like Tevinter, of course. But by frigid southern mountain standards. Maybe, seeing as he's come so far, he will have the sense of self-preservation to remove it.

Or perhaps he will have the sense of coat-preservation not to. Dorian has not been subtle about his intentions to liberate it.

"I think we'd all prefer to spare you the trouble," Cullen says. "Speaking of your distress, though..."

"Oh, what has the old man done now?" Dorian sighs. The morning free from his father has been a relief, but it cannot have lasted much longer anyway. It would have been preferable, though, if Cullen had simply wanted to pry into the nature of Dorian's relationship with the Bull as Sera had.

But Cullen shakes his head. "Actually, nothing yet. He even took breakfast with the rest of us. Made some very pretty apologies to the Inquisitor in regards to their previous encounter, and she remained unswayed. He seemed curious about the southern templar order, but I—did not tell him much, I'm afraid."

Dorian narrows his eyes. "And he didn't press you for it? I can't imagine he was satisfied." Birdsong carries over the wall from some entrepreneurial avian, and the smell of smoke hangs faint in the air, and Dorian notices these things while his suspicion gains substance. "This doesn't seem much like him."

Another of Cullen's virtues: he will take anything said to him seriously, regardless of delivery. It seems a very conscious decision upon his part, for he has clearly demonstrated he can spot a joke even in places where a joke ought not go. Maybe it's a templar thing, to discourage being called upon for trivial matters. In any case it means Cullen only nods along with Dorian's concerns instead of writing them off. "I can't say I'll notice him acting out of character, but I'll be happy to have him watched more closely if you'd like."

Despite Dorian's newly earned title of "the good Tevinter," it seems the warmth has not spread to his countrymen. Or maybe, if he's going to be optimistic, word got out he and his father did not part on the best of terms. It should by rights comfort him, but it settles in his gut like indigestion instead. The sins of the father, and all that.

"I would not dream of obstructing the maintenance of our security," he says, with more bite than he intended or indeed than Cullen deserves. "We've no need to continue watching the skies, after all."

Cullen laughs again, and there's no way to know whether he's laughing off the barb or just missed it entirely. Dorian will pretend it's the latter option. "Well, that may be," Cullen replies, "but I'm not looking down just yet."

Hence his presence on the wall, one supposes.

"I suppose I ought to find the good Ambassador," Dorian sighs, for the pleasant morning has been punctured now and the sun is nearing its zenith anyway, still far more northerly than is natural, though less so than in the depths of winter. And nary a cloud in the sky. Halward, no doubt, will dare the outdoors eventually; he did always evangelise the virtues of exposure to sunlight. It would not do to be accused of avoidance.

A nod from Cullen, perhaps more a nudge. "She did mention looking for you last night. Not that I can blame you for getting out of sight after that awkward dinner affair. I haven't seen Kara act so coldly toward anyone since—well, Solas."

They share a grimace. Much of Skyhold had been unaware of their Inquisitor's dalliance until its sudden end after the victory at the Arbor Wilds, but Kara, fairly private about her relationships, had no problem proclaiming her displeasure. That too had been a trying time for Josephine, having to juggle the management of wild rumors with the management of Kara's temper.

If Josephine intends to fill the same role for Dorian—Void take it, she probably held an informational meeting this morning—Dorian will simply have to deal with his father before she can. Perhaps Kara as well. So after Cullen waves him off, Dorian follows the wall to the mural room, still empty and silent despite the activity on higher balconies, and into the main hall.

It's hardly deserted, but while several of Halward's retinue linger around the tables, the magister himself is nowhere to be seen. All the better, as Dorian crosses the hall to Josephine's office; once he encounters his father he will no doubt be stuck with the man for the better part of the afternoon. The Tevinter men track him as he passes by, but do not address him. They probably have neither desire nor an inkling how to approach him. What does one say to a man who outranks you but has discarded his decorative spikes entirely? Surely nothing of the weather.

But Josephine's office thankfully contains only Josephine. "Ah, Dorian, you're awake," she says, which after all this time he's fairly certain is the equivalent of teasing him. He'd never know it from her vocal cues. "I trust you slept well? Your father inquired after you over breakfast, but seemed unsurprised to hear you had not yet risen."

"What can I say?" Dorian says, spreading his hands. "All this beauty requires a corresponding amount of rest. I do hope I haven't inadvertently saddled you with him. You are a rather busy woman, as I understand it."

Josephine titters. "Oh, he's not so bad. He does seem to be making an effort to be civil, which is more than some of our past guests can say."

Does she realise she's got her public persona on, or is it something she keeps throughout the day? Or, more alarming, has Dorian placed himself in the category of "feuding noble" to be dealt with? The prospect does little to ease the mind, or his lingering sense of guilt, but that is Josephine's job, to be fair. Players of any variation on the Great Game need to be able to compartmentalise, which is why Dorian was always an abject failure at it back home. Ironically, perhaps, that's more the Bull's area of expertise.

Josephine, resplendent in blue and gold, smiles benevolently upon him and does nothing to clarify. "I did have a question for you, however."

Maker save him from delightful, well-mannered women. "That's right," Dorian says, "You did mention, last night."

"It was not urgent." Josephine delivers the statement with a wink, that probably says something like "Don't worry, Dorian, I've told everyone necessary what not to tell everyone else, which means everyone will know everything, in case you were hoping to sneak out of this one."

He was not. Despite his father's unpredictable reactions, Dorian would carry out this scheme—if for nothing else than the story it will make. "Remember the time everyone believed that Bull and I were lovers?" he would say, and the Bull would says something about how that could still happen if Dorian played his cards right, and Dorian would make some witty retort, and everyone would laugh. And Halward Pavus would be far away in Minrathous, utterly convinced of his son's irredeemable depravity.

Josephine is talking. Dorian focuses to hear, "...could resolve that matter sooner rather than later, it would make for a much easier visit for all parties. I believe you will find him in the mage tower, if you would care to—" She catches his blank face and sighs. "Would you like me to repeat myself?"

"My father, wreaking havoc in the mage tower, correct?" Dorian has been paying attention, up until just now. The sweet call of a better future would distract anyone. "I assure you, I will take full responsibility for the man and all his mayhem."

That gets him an odd look. "Your father is, I believe, making himself known among our other guests. Lady Molier seemed particularly keen on picking his brains on Tevinter architecture, if I recall correctly." Josephine pauses, and then continues, "It is the Enchanter Antoine of whom I speak. He has taken exception to your father's presence in a... disruptive fashion. I had hoped you might address his concerns before he causes another incident."

Dorian doesn't know the name, but that's no surprise; he and the former rebels are still on shaky terms. Oh, sure, he helped them rather significantly, but there is the association with Alexius—and the fact that Dorian, the Tevinter mage, walks freely and advises the Inquisitor while they have been until very recently on a restricted probation. To that end, sending him to reassure seems a fairly ineffective move, but Josephine seems to think it will work, and that's a decent reason to give it a try.

In the hall, his father's retinue still hang about; they watch Dorian take the garden door with the same uncertain watchfulness as before.

Kara's herb garden lies dormant for the winter yet, save for few felandris pots, and the arbor blessing she and her gardener have trained along the columns. But a light fuzz of green has clung to the spaces between paths recently. Cullen promised snowdrop and crocus, iris and possibly narcissus, in the coming weeks, even up here in the Frostbacks. They grew from bulbs, he explained, which slept all winter and soaked up the melting snow during the thaw. In Tevinter of course there are perennials, but they mostly bloom throughout the year, sometimes interspersed with fruit. Here in the south, the land turns barren with the cold, only to renew itself with the spring. Less convenient for the farmer, perhaps, but there's a certain symbolic romance to it all.

Dorian skirts it, in the shadowed walkway. His father is indeed conversing with a number of Orlesians, sufficiently caught up in conversation not to catch Dorian's wary glances, but there's no need to to try his luck further. He does not dart up the stairs, but once above the garden he does pick up his pace until he reaches the wall, out of view.

The mages out on the wall for the most part acknowledge him; they are at least familiar enough for that. Dorian approaches the woman in yellow standing beside the tower facade, who even offers him half a smile; it fades as he gets closer. "May I help you?" she asks, guarded.

"I do hope so," says Dorian. "Enchanter, fellow named Antoine? I'm told he may benefit from allowing me to address some of his concerns."

The woman rolls her eyes. "The man can't shut his mouth, can he? He's already getting some kind of talking-to from that Iron Bull. Don't be too hard on him, please." She purses her lips, gives Dorian a long look. "Antoine's had a rough time of it. Didn't get along well with the last magister we had around."

"I simply mean to hear his concerns," Dorian replies; true enough, for Josephine had not requested any particular results. Hang the results, anyway. These mages were no friends of his, but they'd fought battles for the same side, and they'd never tried blood anything on him, which put them quite a few up on Halward Pavus. Dorian would stick up for a more disruptive man than this over his father's peace of mind.

Odd that the Bull would also be speaking with him. Perhaps he'd been present for whatever disruption had transpired? Or perhaps this Antoine has simply been busy.

The woman in yellow eyes him for a moment, and then relaxes her shoulders a touch. "You'll find him up on the top of the tower, or run into him on the way," she says. "Bright red hair and a wide round nose. Swear to Andraste you'll know him when you see him." She rubs her hands a moment, so Dorian waits, and his instincts are rewarded—or perhaps punished—when she adds, "That's your father down there, isn't it? The other magister."

Dorian winces. "Unfortunately."

But that earns him a surprised laugh. "Suppose any politics man makes a poor parent. Mine sure was." She extends her hand, and Dorian stares at it a moment before offering his and allowing it to be shaken. He's been in the south enough to recognise the gesture, but rarely has it been made toward him. "Emily," she says, with a firm hand. "Of—well, Skyhold now, I suppose."

"Dorian. Of House Pavus." Hand reclaimed, he makes to go. "And Skyhold as well, for that matter. I appreciate the assistance."

Emily waves him off, so Dorian enters the tower, dread somehow eased since Josephine's request. The reconstruction efforts clearly did well, for the only draught comes through the door with him, and inside is gloriously warm. Trust other mages to understand the importance of livable conditions. Smoke, lyrium, and lotus dominate the air, filling the nose with a little too much intensity to be pleasant, but familiar nonetheless. Fewer mages notice Dorian within these walls, in the dimmer lighting, deep in conversation and research themselves.

Dorian climbs three stairways and halts when someone nearly blunders into him. He looks up to a shock of red hair and what must be the nose Emily described, eyes wide in alarm.

"Enchanter Antoine, I presume?" he says.

The mage grimaces. "My apologies ser, it—it won't happen again." He looks back from where he came, and adds, "Trying to pick fights, I mean. Also almost knocking you over. Um."

Dorian relaxes, although a growing suspicion has begun taking form in him. "Well, do try to avoid the latter for both our interests. I've no problem with you picking fights although I suspect Josephine might—and depending who with, it might not be such a good idea."

Antoine stares at him a moment. "Uh, right," he says, slowly.

Whatever the Bull had said to him seems to be rather effective. Perhaps overly so. "The Ambassador also mentioned you might have some worries I could ease," Dorian continues.

Another pause, and then Antoine exhales and straightens himself a bit. "Well—he's not staying, is he?"

Dorian wants to laugh, but Antoine most likely would not appreciate the humor there. "He wouldn't want to stay another more than you would want him to. Or I, for that matter. He'll be gone seven days from now."

Antoine nods and tries a smile, though it doesn't get particularly far. "All right. I'll keep away from him and all his people," he says, and then continues bolting down the stairs.

Free from obligation, Dorian continues upward. The Bull is, as expected, still up on the top of the tower, watching the Skyhold courtyards below. Not idly, though—having seen him at ease, Dorian can see even a graceless man's form of poise, and the Bull is not entirely graceless. Dorian approaches from the side, to find he's not watching a fixed position, but taking in all the movement below, eyes scanning back and forth.

"Hey," he says, not looking up yet.

"What did you say to the enchanter?" Dorian demands.

The Bull raises his gaze then, to settle on Dorian beside him. "Told him those Vints aren't worth the trouble. Might've said the same about causing you extra headaches. Didn't mean to intimidate him, but." The Bull shrugs, unrepentant so far as Dorian can tell. The drapery around his legs, however, looks less worn than usual, and Dorian sniffs experimentally.

"You've washed," he says, surprised in spite of himself. "This truly is a time of miracles."

"Thought you said I had to," the Bull replies. "When we decided to shack up. You snore, by the way. Figured you might wanna know that little detail about yourself."

Dorian thinks to refute it, but then—he can't know for sure. Certainly no one has slept in a bed with him in any capacity for several decades. "You must have been dreaming," he says, instead: a less telling statement. "You've no proof at all."

"Qunari don't dream," says the Bull, idly, and he looks back down to the grounds. Dorian follows suit. By now all of Skyhold has been immersed in their duties or pursuits for a good few hours, and the sounds of combat practice, conversation, and tools in use blend together to a comfortable clatter and hum. Dorian usually sees this view from the library window, not quite so high up and facing the opposite direction, but despite that nothing seems particularly out of the ordinary.

He looks back to the Bull, who still watches. "Your dad's people haven't taken very tactical positions," he says, and Dorian notices them now he bears them in mind. Clustered, in no discernible configuration except the two at their magister's side—and whoever remains in the hall. "They're disorganised. I’d say it's bad direction in some other circumstance."

"If Magister Pavus wanted something accomplished," Dorian replies, bitterly, "he wouldn't have it done sloppily."

But the Bull just nods. "That's why I'm thinking they're not actually doing anything. Safety on the road, but he's not using them now."

It does make sense, after a fashion. Halward came to manipulate Dorian into returning home, or to cajole, or to beg. Had he possessed an ulterior motive it would not have been shocking, but he didn't need one to make the journey. And neither retainers nor guards nor slaves, if he had the nerve to bring them, will help in that particular campaign.

Dorian says, "Why did you speak with the enchanter?"

The Bull, when he turns his face again to Dorian, is smiling. "Heard about it from Josephine at breakfast," he says, nonchalant. "I figured you had enough on your plate with the magister without nannying the mages as well. Plus, you were still asleep at that point."

That sounds alarmingly like confirmation of Dorian's earlier suspicions. "Bull," he replies, "isn't it I who owes you a favor?"

A sudden weight; the Bull claps him on the shoulder, snorting. "From how I understand it, people romantically involved don't owe each other favors. It's just a nice thing to do."

So it's part of the act. That's acceptable, then, but Dorian somehow finds himself disappointed. Which is absurd; he doesn't need any more genuine favors from anyone, particularly the Bull. Considering the kind of favor this entire charade amounts to, Dorian already owes him more than enough to worry about.

But he can spend time worrying about it once the first ordeal has passed. “Speaking of,” Dorian says, “I suspect I’ve avoided my father long enough today, and since I no longer have the excuse of Josephine’s request…”

“Well, then,” the Bull says, smiling all crooked, “let me escort you.”

 

 


End file.
